


Scion

by Lenore



Category: SV/Profit
Genre: Challenge Response, Crossdressing, Crossover, Little Black Dress, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-18
Updated: 2007-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:30:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To make an important deal, Gracen and Gracen has to demonstrate its moral fiber. Or at least appear more upright than its rival LuthorCorp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scion

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/black_dress_lex/profile)[**black_dress_lex**](http://community.livejournal.com/black_dress_lex/) challenge. Big thank you to my darling [](http://barely-bean.livejournal.com/profile)[**barely_bean**](http://barely-bean.livejournal.com/) for beta reading and encouragement.

Family values. That favorite phrase of politicians and late-night televangelists. It's not something you'll hear much about in the halls of corporate America, unless it's a marketing strategy aimed at Midwestern soccer moms. Or those corporate halls happen to belong to Linstrom Technologies. A privately owned semi-conductor company, Linstrom is perhaps best known for its CEO Bernard Linstrom and his crusade to bring moral fiber back to the business world.

The cornerstone of the Linstom philosophy is that a company is only as upstanding as the people who work for it. Linstrom employees are required to sign a pledge promising not to smoke, drink, use drugs, swear, commit adultery, or take the Lord's name in vain. Breaking the pledge is grounds for immediate dismissal.

A fact perhaps less well known about Linstrom Technologies is that it has recently made significant strides forward in nanotechnology, drawing the interest of a number of larger companies who'd like to cash in on its innovation. Bernard Linstrom has quietly made it known that he's willing to sell if the right offer comes his way. Making a quick buck, it appears, is as much a family value as singing in the church choir.

Gracen and Gracen has been looking for an opportunity to expand its high tech holdings, and Linstrom Technologies would round out the company's portfolio nicely. The challenge? Bernard Linstrom is looking for a successor to carry on his company's high moral standards. It's not just the number of zeroes on the check that matters, but the character of the person signing it. Gracen and Gracen may be "The Family Company," but in business, success rarely comes without getting your hands dirty.

* * *

It's eight o'clock, and most of Gracen and Gracen's employees are still on their way to the office. Chaz Gracen is on his third cup of coffee, busily issuing edicts and leaving voicemails, a smirk in his voice as he puts the recipients on the hot seat, "Stop by when you make it into the office." There is one call, however, that is picked up on the first ring. Jim Profit has been at his desk since seven.

"You wanted to see me, Chaz?" Jim pauses in the doorway, an obligatory show of respect, waiting to be asked in.

"Shut the door." Chaz nods him toward a seat. "You've heard about the Linstrom deal?"

"G&amp;G is going up against LuthorCorp and AltaVist for it." Jim eases back in the chair, a picture of casual interest. The fact that he's spent many late nights disinterring every last shred of information about Linstrom Technologies is his own little secret.

"Linstrom has some very important patents," Chaz goes into explanation mode, wholly unnecessary, but Jim plasters on an attentive expression anyway, "and with that technology, G&amp;G can beat our competitors to market with the next generation of electronics. To make the deal, though, I have to convince that moralizing prig Bernard Lindstrom that we're the right company to carry on the Lord's work in nanotechnology. I've already been to bible study with him—_twice_, Profit—and I will not have wasted hours of my life on sanctimonious drivel for nothing. I need you on this."

"Of course," Jim says and then hesitates meaningfully. "I just wonder—"

Chaz's forehead creases. "What?"

"Are we sure this is the right move? That we know everything about the company? It'd be a shame to invest so much time and effort wooing Linstom if we're not absolutely certain."

"Sykes did the due diligence. Linstrom Technologies is as squeaky clean as its CEO is annoying. So it's up to you now. Make this happen for me, Profit."

Jim gets briskly to his feet. "I'm on it."

Chaz stops him at the door. "Do whatever it takes. Your job just might depend on it."

Jim nods. "Of course, Mr. Gracen."

Doing whatever it takes is his specialty, after all.

* * *

The key to winning in the high stakes game of mergers and acquisitions is to thoroughly understand your competition. LuthorCorp, headquartered in Metropolis, Kansas, has diversified global holdings, with particular strengths in technology, agriculture and media, and annual net profits exceeding four billion dollars. AltaVist was spun off from the communications giant TeleWorld in a settlement with the Justice Department during an anti-monopoly lawsuit in the 90s. A direct competitor of Linstrom Technologies, AltaVist would dominate the market if their takeover bid succeeds.

Of course, even more important is gaining insight into the men behind the companies. Lionel Luthor portrays himself as the son of privilege, but if you dig deeply enough, you find he's scratched his way up to the executive suite from a gin-soaked childhood in the gutters of Suicide Slums, beginning his empire with the meager insurance money he received when his parents were killed in a tragic (and some might say convenient) tenement fire. LuthorCorp keeps the shine on its image with well-funded corporate philanthropy and Lionel Luthor's uncanny knack for spinning a story. Critics of the company invariably end up drinking Mai Tais in the Caribbean on the LuthorCorp dime or being fished out of the Metropolis River.

Alex Kerris, CEO of AltaVist, is genuine American aristocracy, married to a daughter of the Landau political dynasty, the eldest son of one of the oldest families in California, a CEO like his father and his father before him. He has West Coast good looks, plays a mean game of golf, and the words most often used to describe him are: "what a great guy."

Still, every man has his Achilles heel. Cutthroat overachievers don't as a rule make good parents, and Lionel Luthor's son Lex seems to live for little else than creating PR nightmares for his father. According to the LuthorCorp website, he's currently taking a break from graduate studies in biochemistry at Oxford, but if you ask anyone who's anyone in New York society, they'll tell you he's busy cutting a swath of sex and drugs through the Manhattan club scene. Alex Kerris is the portrait of a devoted family man. There is, in fact, a photograph of him on page two of the company's annual report with his wife Carolyn and two ruddy-cheeked sons in soccer jerseys, but if you have access to the right sources, you soon learn that Alex Kerris' favorite boys are actually a few years older, with a taste for eyeliner and available by the hour.

It just so happens that Alex Kerris is in New York to attend the annual Technology Summit, in the same city where Lex Luthor is enthusiastically debauching himself. Two birds one stone. In business, we call that synergy.

* * *

There is an understandable wariness of strangers in the rarified social circles that Lex Luthor travels in. To gain entry to this exclusive little world you need an insider to vouch for you. The good news is: with the right kind of persuasion there's always someone willing to make the introduction.

825 Park Avenue, one of the more exclusive buildings on the Upper East Side. On the top floor lives Brett Edgerton, an heir to the Edgerton mining fortune, scion of one of the first families of Manhattan society, a frequent companion, if not exactly friend, of Lex Luthor. Jim tells his driver to pull the limo over and wait. It's after four in the morning, and young Brett should be stumbling home soon.

Jim rolls down the window when he spots the boy. "Mr. Edgerton, a word."

Brett lists to one side, his blonde hair messily in his eyes. He scowls. "Who the fuck are you?"

Jim skips the niceties and gets right to the point, "It's about Cecily Daniels."

At the mention of that name, some of the glazed dimness goes out of Brett's expression. "Fuck you, you fucker!"

He gets into the car nonetheless.

"Take us for a drive around the block," Jim tells the driver and closes the privacy screen.

Brett slouches in the seat, his body language aggressively disinterested, but Jim doesn't miss the white-knuckled clench of his hands.

"You don't know anything, so don't think I'm giving you any money. You couldn't know anything." Brett adds just a beat too late, "Because there's nothing to know."

False bravado, Jim can spot it anywhere, even when it isn't this obvious.

"I know you raped Cecily Daniels." He says it the same way he'd talk about Gracen and Gracen's quarterly sales figures, with all the unassailable certainty of fact.

"There's no proof of that!" Brett insists hotly.

Jim smiles. "Isn't there?"

Brett's confidence falters a little. "She would have gone to the police."

"That's exactly where she was headed when I went to pay her a visit, the evidence all neatly bagged up for the authorities. I managed to persuade her to let me handle it instead."

Brett's lip turns up in a sneer. "I don't believe there's any evidence."

Jim pulls the photographs from his jacket pocket. "Cecily Daniels took a lesson from Monica Lewinsky. She kept the dress you ripped off her the night you attacked her. It has your DNA all over it. She also took photos of her injuries. It's hard to argue sex was consensual when the girl looks like that afterwards." He hands over the prints of Cecily Daniels' battered face, her bruised body. "Feel free to keep those, by the way. I have more copies." He turns his smile on Brett, with all the deadly seriousness of a glacier.

Brett has gone about as pale as one. "I don't have any money to pay her off. My family— They won't—" His fingers tighten on the photographs.

"No, of course they won't," Jim agrees. This isn't Brett's first run in with the law, and it's a little kept secret that the family is one embarrassing scandal away from cutting him off for good. "I've suggested an arrangement that's acceptable to Miss Daniels. Everything is already taken care of. All I need from you is a simple favor." He smiles. "And then we can put this whole unfortunate business behind us."

"What kind of favor?" The boy's eyes narrow suspiciously.

Jim hands him a card.

"Scion?" Brett frowns as he reads. "What's that?"

"It's a business venture," Jim tells him. "I'm in the field of personal fulfillment, you could call it. My specialty is providing one-of-a-kind experiences for very exclusive clients. You'd be surprised how much some people are willing to pay for a piece of society ass."

"You want me to—" Brett's face turns a bright, furious red. "I'm _not_ a fucking faggot! And I'm sure as hell not going to whore myself out. So you can just go fuck yourself!" He reaches for the door handle.

"That's fine, Brett." Jim knocks on the partition, and the driver pulls over to the curb. "If you'd rather give it away for free to your cellmate—"

Brett already has one foot out of the car. "I'm not going to jail."

Jim raises an eyebrow. "Don't you think so? Cecily Daniels was ready to go to the police. _Will_ file a complaint if my deal with her falls through. Tell me, did you get to know her at all? Or did you skip right to the raping? Because she's really quite an impressive young woman. Straight A's. Pre med. Spends her free time volunteering on the children's ward at Sloan Kettering. She's so sweet with those poor little kids with cancer. When the jury looks at her, they're going to see their daughter or sister." He tilts his head thoughtfully. "What are they going to see when they look at you, Brett?"

Brett hesitates, the desire to get the hell out of there clearly written in his expression, but finally he says, "How long would I have to do it?"

"I need you to help me get started, that's all," Jim assures him. "Vouch for me with your friends when I approach them. Think of yourself as a recruiting tool."

"What makes you think anyone I know is going to be interested in this?"

"Let me worry about that." Jim winks. "I'll be in touch."

Brett thumps out of the car.

Jim calls after him, "Oh, and Brett? Enjoy the rest of your evening."

* * *

The secret to getting the attention of the rich and socially well connected is to remember one simple fact: nothing is quite so boring as a life of privilege. Supply some much needed drama, and you have the opening you're looking for.

From the outside, Speak Easy is a rusted metal door, the air of a warehouse or a meat packing plant, an industrial block on the Lower East Side, desolate at night, trash blowing along in the breeze like tumbleweed. Tucked out of view is a keypad, and Jim enters the code, helpfully supplied by Brett Edgerton. Music blares in his face as he steps inside, something strident and complaining and forgettable, the way complaints always are. Jim steers a course for the bar, sidestepping a girl in a sequined tube top and body glitter, throwing up all over her girlfriend's Manolo Blahniks.

"Bitch!" The crack of hand across cheek gets lost in the noise of the crowd.

The bartender glances Jim's way, and he orders Scotch, Lex Luthor's drink of choice, and waits. Lex Luthor is a slim line of black, shirt tightly fitted across his chest, pants showing off his ass, leather jacket catching and reflecting the strobe lights. He's dancing with a tall, pretty transsexual, his hand on her breast, stroking in time to the music, knee between her legs.

Jim hears the disturbance before he sees the man cutting through the crowd, tall and thick-necked, face florid from beer and ruined by acne scars. He grabs Lex by the arm and yanks him away from his dance partner. "You little shit!"

Jim has never believed in sending an amateur to do a professional's job, and this guy, Vinnie Tezzerazzi, has regional theater credits that include the roles of "Intimidating Thug" and "Wiseguy #2."

Lex's boy-girl melts into the crowd, and Lex himself gives his attacker a measuring look. "Lex Luthor. What can I do for you?"

"Your father fucked me over." Vinnie's method acting includes spitting when he talks. "Made me lose my job over nothing."

"Yes," Lex says, with an ironic tilt of his lips, "my father does that kind of thing."

"You think that's funny?" Vinnie takes him by the collar, pulling too hard, dark fabric cutting into pale skin. "We'll see if you're laughing after I've fucked _you_ over."

There's a flash of fist, and a collective gasp from the crowd, and then Lex is sprawled on his backside in the ancient grime of the floor, blood smeared across his mouth. Jim kicks back the last of his drink, pauses a moment longer, because timing is everything, and then marches over, flashes his own fist.

Vinnie glares an accusation, because Jim was supposed to pull his punch, as if that kind of pretense would ever fool someone like Lex Luthor.

"I think that's enough for one evening, don't you?" Jim lifts an eyebrow inquiringly at Vinnie.

Lex gets to his feet, wiping his bloody lip on the back of his hand.

"This isn't over!" Vinnie points a finger, the color high in his cheeks. He seems dangerously close to improvising, and Jim shoots him a warning glance. Vinnie lets his arm fall, somewhat reluctantly. "You haven't seen the last of me." He bulldozes his way back through the crowd and out the door.

Jim has Lex's full attention now. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." He reaches out, strokes his thumb along Lex's cheek.

Lex's eyes fasten on him with more interest.

Jim smiles, holds up his hand. "Blood."

"You should let me buy you a drink." Lex has already taken hold of his arm.

Jim rarely imbibes, and the second Scotch unfurls warmly in his stomach.

Lex shifts closer, leaning into Jim's space. "So, how can I thank you?"

Jim rubs his thumb along the rim of his glass. "Not necessary."

Lex's eyes are a hard, bright blue. "That's not what I asked. If you don't have a request, I'll have to come up with a fitting thank-you all on my own."

Jim meets his gaze, holds it, and then melts into a smile, the way he's learned to do so effectively. "Who am I to stand in the way of gratitude?"

There's a place out back, Lex knows it, leads the way, a dark corner with trash under foot and grease on the walls, the faint stink of industrial solvent from one of the building's previous lives still clinging to the surfaces, permeating the dirt. Lex fists his hand in Jim's jacket and slides their mouths together, taste of copper from the cut, and Jim allows it, just for a moment. Then he takes charge, pushes Lex back against the rough brick and shoves his knee between Lex's thighs, a mirror of Lex's own moves from earlier in the evening. "I'm going to fuck you now."

He forces Lex around and pushes down his pants in one smooth motion. Lex goes with it, lounging against the crumbling brick, arching his back. Jim unzips, and there's that metal sound along with Lex's breathing and the faint roar of traffic from the street rippling the warm, heavy air. Jim strokes himself to hardness, quick, pragmatic pulls of his hand, and he rolls on a condom. Sex is physics and physiology, friction and firing synapses. Jim has never much cared who was on the other end of that, has never much cared about it period. He shifts his hips, slides his cock against Lex's skin, tracing a path along the firm curve of his ass.

This teasing promises one thing, and Jim delivers another, shoving in hard and fast, no warning. Lex braces his hands on the dusty wall, and doesn't gasp, a matter of pride Jim guesses, although he can feel the hitch in Lex's back. Surprise definitely, pain quite possibly. Either way, Lex's hips push back, just as hard, even harder maybe, and Jim's cock slides deeper inside him.

To get the upper hand, you have to keep the other person off balance, and Jim takes Lex's hips tight in his hands, suddenly slowing his thrusts, until it's just a tease again. "Do you think about him when you're getting fucked?" he whispers in Lex's ear.

Lex's pleasure noises stutter and abruptly stop. Lex bucks his body up, trying to shove Jim off. It's clear he knows exactly whom Jim is talking about. He forces Lex still and kisses his neck, the delicacy of bone, breath stirring skin, more intimate than a cock up the ass any day. "This isn't rebellion." He starts to fuck more deliberately. "But it could be."

Lex's back dips with his breath, and the tension slowly eases, and he darts a speculative look over his shoulder. Jim smiles and curls a hand around Lex's cock, his knuckles scraping brick. He sets a harder pace, almost brutal, and then Lex's body is clenching around him. Physics and physiology, and Jim comes too. He pauses for a moment afterwards, cock still inside Lex, his weight heavy on the boy's warm, sweaty back. He slides a business card into Lex's hand.

"I know something you could do that would really piss off your father." He kisses his ear. "Ask your friend Brett about it."

He pulls out and ditches the condom and tucks in. Lex is still slumped against the wall, back rising and falling sharply. Jim straightens his tie as he walks away. He has every reason to be smiling.

* * *

In simplest terms, business is matchmaking, introducing supply to demand and waiting for the free market to take its natural course. Whenever Alex Kerris is in New York, he pays a visit to a certain private cabaret, popular for its don't ask, don't tell commitment to discretion, where gentlemen of his particular inclinations can enjoy an evening of drinking, dancing and dinner with their paid-for companions. It's a consumer culture we live in. Shine something prettier and more expensive in a man's eyes, and he'll invariably find a way to trade up.

Brett Edgerton can't sit still, his knee bouncing, hands clenching and unclenching, restlessly shifting positions in the back seat of the limo, edging away from Jim whenever they seem to be in any danger of accidentally touching.

"Don't think you're going to fuck me," he says belligerently, not for the first time. "Because you're not."

Jim smiles and doesn't answer, eyes straight ahead, and Brett fidgets even more uncomfortably. To say he was reluctant to take on this assignment is to understate the case rather dramatically. Jim at last prevailed on him with some colorful descriptions of life behind bars, and Brett had grudgingly put on the clothes, let Jim take care of his makeup. It's surprising what a pretty plaything Brett makes with just a little window dressing—sharp cheekbones brushed with color, freshly glossed lips and just a hint of eyeliner, wearing a gauzy shirt, cut low down his chest, and tight leather pants that are little more than an invitation to take them off.

The fact that Brett isn't especially comfortable in his role as bait is simple enough to fix. Jim hands him a vial of white powder. "Something to make the evening more enjoyable for you."

Brett's eyes light with craving, but he darts a wary glance at Jim. He knows what coke does to him, how it blunts his sense of self-preservation, knows he really shouldn't give himself over to the freefall, not tonight.

Jim starts to tuck the bottle back into his pocket, and Brett snatches it away, greed winning out over common sense, as it inevitably does with him. He turns his head, snorts, and when he turns back, Jim wipes a stray streak of powder from his cheek. Already Brett's eyes aren't quite as focused as before, and he doesn't flinch at the touch. The limo picks its way through heavy traffic, and by the time they arrive, there's a buzz coming off Brett's skin, his eyes wide and full of pharmacological marvel. He doesn't pull away when Jim guides him into the building, hand resting on the curve of his ass.

The cabaret is cavernously dark as these places tend to be, glossy mahogany panels and leather banquettes adding to the air of secrecy. Candlelight provides most of the illumination, but it is bright enough to see the graying men and their pretty boys. There's a stage at one end, a swing orchestra tonight, and later in the evening, the dance floor will be crowded with these unlikely couples, the boys bored looking and fumbling through dance steps far older than they are.

Jim slips a fifty to the hostess, who shows them to the table he requests, private enough to put on a show, not so private that it will go unnoticed. Alex Kerris and his rent boy _du jour_ are seated almost directly opposite, with the perfect view. Jim orders martinis, Brett's drink, and during the first round, he works on getting Brett loosened up, leaning in to whisper "just relax" and "sit closer," while he rubs his hand over Brett's leg, the soft warmth of leather sliding against his palm.

Brett's eyes have gone glassy, all pupil, and there's a definite spark of interest in them now, the drugs burning him down to his reptile brain, only primal instinct and basic needs, unfettered from any higher reasoning, much less concern for his unwavering heterosexuality that he so hotly avowed before. Another round of martinis, and Brett is looking at Jim as if he doesn't entirely remember who he is or how either of them got here. Jim has slowly been moving his hand, strategically up his thigh, along the inside seam of his pants, and finally to Brett's crotch. He's already hard, and Jim strokes lightly. Brett's expression opens up with surprised pleasure, and then he's leaning in, lips fumbling onto Jim's, tongue licking eagerly, his mouth as sticky sweet as cotton candy.

Jim presses his thumb into Brett's erection, just a hair too much pressure, and Brett starts and gasps and then moans, surging up into the touch. He gropes his way into Jim's lap, hot palm settling on Jim's cock.

"You're not hard," Brett sounds as if he can't imagine how that could be, his eyebrows drawing together in consternation.

"You'll just have to work harder," Jim says into his ear.

Alex Kerris has been watching them since they got there, the occasional casual glance at first, escalated by now into poorly concealed staring. The boy he has with him—a pale flower with a perfect bow of a mouth that's made for cocksucking—keeps trying to get his attention, a flutter of eyelashes and touch to Kerris' hand and licking margarita salt off his lips in all their pornographic glory. Yet Kerris' eyes keep sliding over to Brett, who is practically in Jim's lap, desperately willing to do anything to keep Jim's hand on his greedy dick.

Jim signals the waiter and pays the tab and manages to get Brett on his feet. They pass by Kerris' table on the way out, and Jim slides his hand down the back of Brett's pants to really sell it.

In the car, Jim loosens his tie and fends off Brett, who's fumbling for Jim's hand, trying to get it back on his cock. "Show's over," Jim tells him.

Brett blinks. Frowns. Blinks some more.

Jim sighs. "Fine. We'll start your training then."

He pushes Brett headfirst into his lap, and Brett flails, and Jim forces him down. "This is how it works, me first, then you."

Brett is high enough—not to mention horny and impatient—to accept this line of reasoning. He tugs at Jim's fly, big, grabby hands completely ineffectual at opening the zipper, and Jim has to bat him away, take care of it himself. Brett stares, licks his lips nervously. Jim is only half interested yet, and he idly wonders how Brett will handle it when he gets fully erect in his mouth.

He calculates the odds of Brett bolting the next time they stop for a red light, but there really is no underestimating the power Brett's dick has over him or his almost quaint belief in quid pro quo. He darts out his tongue and touches it very gingerly to Jim's shaft. He makes a face, but goes back again, licking more surely, opening his mouth, taking just a little at first, then more and more.

Jim rubs Brett's head like he's a skittish cat and gives him instructions. _Keep your teeth covered_ and _vary the pressure_ and _try to be a little more creative with your tongue_—things he'll need to know for his walk-on role as a high society whore. The limo pulls up outside Brett's building, and Jim has things to do, so he grabs Brett's jaw and holds him still and fucks his face. The indignant noise Brett makes sends a sweet shiver up Jim's cock that sets him off, and Brett coughs and splutters come out his nose and coughs even harder when he tries to curse.

"What the fuck was that?" Brett demands, looking suddenly more clear-eyed.

Jim smiles coldly. "Like I said. Training." He jerks his head toward the door. "I'll be in touch when I have another assignment for you."

"But what about—" He looks meaningfully down at the bulge in his pants.

Jim smirks. "I'm sure you can handle it."

Brett huffs out of the car and slams the door, and ordinarily Jim would find that amusing, but he's already focused elsewhere, on the next phase of his plan.

"The Pierre," he tells the driver.

The Technology Summit begins there tomorrow—Alex Kerris one of the keynote speakers—and Jim is registered in the guise of the CEO of a small software company headquartered in Texas.

The limo pulls up in front of the hotel, and the driver takes Jim's bags from the trunk and hands them off to the bellhop. At the front desk, a young clerk with a nametag that reads "Samantha" smiles brightly, and Jim puts on a twang as he gives his name, "Jim Parnell."

"Welcome to The Pierre, Mr. Parnell." Samantha types into the computer and glances up at him. "I see you're here for the Technology Summit."

"Yes, ma'am, that's right." Jim flashes an aw-shucks smile, laying on the Southern charm. "My first time in the big city."

"Here's your registration packet." Samantha hands over a thick envelope. "There's a schedule on top, with all the locations listed." She smiles, and there's a glimmer of something more than professional courtesy in it. "Let me know if there's anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable."

"Oh, I sure will do that." He winks and heads off to the elevator.

He wastes the next morning in panel discussions, listening to jowly blowhards ostensibly talking about the future of technology, rambling on about their own company's profit margins, chalking up their success to vision and long-term planning and investments in R&amp;D when Jim knows for a fact it has more to do with outsourcing to India and backroom deals with regulators to drive new companies out of the marketplace before they can grow into competition. Jim uses these same tactics himself.

The last session before lunch is led by Kerris, who is more of a natural in front of a crowd than his cohorts, even if what he has to say is just as predictable. Jim takes notes, energetically flipping the pages of his yellow legal pad, a furrow of interest between his eyebrows, as if this is all so fascinating. By the time the session is over, he has a proposal neatly outlined for a deal he plans to pitch to Chaz to acquire a Japanese communications company.

Afterwards, Kerris holds court at the front of the room, and Jim hears someone say, "Word's going around that Linstrom Technologies is up for sale and AltaVist is in the hunt for it."

Kerris laughs it off, "Well, that's news to me. Thanks for letting me in on the secret."

There's a ripple of laughter, and the conversation moves on, and Jim walks away thinking, _Convincing, very convincing_. But then, Kerris would need to be an artful liar. Jim heads to the hotel dining room and sits down at a table in plain sight of the door, because sometimes you have to let opportunity come to you. The waiter has just brought his coffee when Alex Kerris appears, surrounded by a group of lackeys. Jim busies himself with the conference program. When he looks up again, Kerris is standing by his table, smiling broadly, showing off a fortune in cosmetic dentistry, his teeth extra white against his tanned skin.

He scans Jim's nametag. "Mr. Parnell?" He extends his hand. "Good to meet you. I noticed you in the session this morning. Mind if I join you?"

"Please." Jim sweeps out his arm. "I'd be right honored, Mr. Kerris."

"So," Kerris keeps a big, artificial smile plastered on, "are you finding the Technology Summit interesting? You seemed to be taking a lot of notes."

Jim nods enthusiastically. "My security software business is still getting off the ground, but I plan for it to be in a league with AltaVist one of these days. So I'm right interested in your views on where the industry is headed."

"You'll have to send me your company's prospectus. Maybe there's some specific insight I can help you with," Kerris offers casually, a mismatch to the expression in his eyes that is hard and urgent.

"Of course! I'll get it right out to you. I sure do appreciate you taking the time to look it over."

Kerris nods, but Jim can tell he's distracted, trying to figure out how to steer the conversation where he really wants it to go. Finally he just comes out with it, his voice dropping, "I saw you last night."

Jim's expression clamps shut. "I'm afraid you've got me confused with somebody else, Mr. Kerris. There's so many people in this crazy old town. Last night, it was just me and room service and a whole bunch of paperwork."

Kerris leans in, lowers his voice even more, "We both know that's not true."

Guilty terror is wide-eyed and pinch-mouthed. Jim has made a study of it. "My wife Nora Gail doesn't— She wouldn't—"

"We all have wives, Jim," Kerris reassures him. "We all know how to keep secrets."

Jim gives him a long scrutinizing look and then makes a big show of relaxing. "Not much of that kind of fun back in Lubbock. It sure does make coming up here to New York City worth the trip."

"That boy you were with, I recognized him," Kerris says, his tone deceptively matter-of-fact. "From the society pages. How'd you meet up with him?"

Jim hesitates. "Our secret?"

Kerris nods, and licks his lips, and the hardness in his eyes practically sparkles. Jim looks around, takes out a Scion business card and slides it across the table. Kerris looks at it, glances up, raising an eyebrow.

Jim shrugs. "I guess it's the new thing rich kids are doing."

Intrigue and caution battle it out in Kerris' expression. He says merely, "Can I keep this?"

"Sure thing. I'm always happy to share information with someone who knows how to keep a secret. You'll need the code if you call. It's Moral Majority."

Kerris grins, as wholesome looking as a toothpaste commercial, and no one watching would ever guess they were talking about how to procure boy whores.

A member of Kerris' staff approaches, taking advantage of the break in conversation. "The reporter from _Entrepreneur_ is here, Mr. Kerris. Are you ready for your interview?"

Kerris nods and gets to his feet, the CEO veneer carefully in place again. "I hope that clears up my point about taking a multi-technology approach to extending your core business capabilities?"

"It sure does," Jim plays up the accent even more. "I thank you kindly for letting me bend your ear."

Kerris nods and goes off to do the interview, listening and nodding as his staffer briefs him. Jim finishes his sandwich and checks out of the hotel, ditching the summit materials in a trashcan on the way out to the limo.

All he has to do now is wait for the phone to ring.

* * *

Gracen and Gracen's long list of subsidiaries includes a real estate holding company that leases apartments and other properties to global corporations. One of its many holdings in New York City is a fully furnished penthouse in a luxury high rise that overlooks the East River. All it takes is a simple change to the real estate company's database, marking the apartment "occupied," to put it at Jim's disposal. A call to a local security firm, and the place is wired for picture and sound, monitors conveniently installed in an upstairs bedroom that Jim has converted into an office, tucked away from sight in a cabinet.

Ready just in time, because the disposable cell phone devoted to Scion business rings that afternoon.

"Selling my ass would certainly be an act of defiance my father would find difficult to ignore," Lex Luthor says without prelude, "but it's hardly subtle."

"Unlike giving it away for free," Jim observes dryly.

"Point." Amusement edges Lex's voice. "Let's say hypothetically that I'm interested. What are the terms?"

"I book the clients. You provide the companionship. We split the profits."

"Sixty-forty," Lex counters. "It is my ass, after all."

"Fifty-fifty," Jim holds firm. "I do have all the overhead costs."

There's a moment of consideration. "I suppose we could give it a try."

"I have some clients to entertain tonight. You and Brett can work together." Jim gives Lex the address of the penthouse. "Be here at seven.

He hangs up and calls Brett, who is sulky and uncooperative as usual until Jim reminds him of the alternative, being passed around like a toy all over the cellblock.

"You fucker!" Brett shouts, which means he'll be there.

The last call is to Mr. Yamanashi, owner of the communications company Jim has his sights set on, in town to meet with some distribution partners. He seamlessly switches to Japanese, and they observe the usual pleasantries before Jim gets down to business and issues the invitation, "I'm throwing a small party tonight, and I was hoping you and Mr. Tochigi could join me. I have some friends I think you'll enjoy meeting."

Watanabe Yamanashi's appreciation for attractive young men is common knowledge among those who do business with him. His second in command, Saito Tochigi, does not share his superior's tastes in companionship, but he'll follow Yamanashi's lead for form's sake. In Jim's experience, most men don't really care who they fuck anyway, just as long as they get off.

He tells Mr. Yamanashi to come at eight. Lex and Brett both arrive on the dot of seven, Lex no doubt punctual out of curiosity, Brett cowed by visions of the prison yard. Jim uses the hour to ply Brett with martinis and coke, medicating away his skittishness, which Lex watches with a contemptuous smirk. Jim points out the decorative box on the coffee table filled with lube and condoms and the cabinet on the long wall behind the sofas with its array of sex toys. Brett's unfocused eyes bug out a little at the sight of a fat purple dildo, but the buzzer conveniently trumps any freakout he might have.

Jim tells the concierge to send up the guests, and he greets them at the door, introduces them to the boys. He doesn't miss the quick flick of Mr. Yamanashi's gaze up and down Lex's body.

Jim plays the good host, "What are you drinking, gentlemen?"

He heads over to the bar and mixes cocktails. Lex settles on the sofa next to Mr. Yamanashi and makes small talk in beautifully accented Japanese. Tochigi sits on the opposite sofa with Brett, so close their thighs brush. Brett fidgets and looks miserable, but doesn't move away, either too high to realize that's a possibility or too aware of the consequences if he disappoints Jim.

Jim joins the conversation and serves up a second round of drinks, and then his phone blares, the volume set as high as it will go.

He snaps it open. "I told you not to interrupt me."

"Um, Mr. Profit?' Gail says uncertainly. "You said I should call you at this number at nine."

Jim sighs heavily. "When did this happen?"

"What?" Gail sounds even more confused.

"All right, all right. I'll take care of it." He snaps the phone closed and says apologetically, "Gentlemen, if you'll excuse me for a few minutes—"

Mr. Yamanashi waves his hand graciously. "We understand the demands of business. You are leaving us in good hands."

Jim goes up to his office, pours himself a glass of milk from the mini fridge behind his desk, and watches on the monitors. Lex makes some joke, head tilted, a coy glance through lowered lashes, and Yamanashi smiles appreciatively, takes Lex's hand and brings it up to his lips, utterly charmed.

Tochigi is less subtle. As Yamanashi's second in command, it is his job to play the enforcer, and there is a raw, brutal quality to him that makes him perfect for the role. He paws at Brett, and Brett flails ineffectually, and Tochigi sucks and bites the boy's neck.

Jim's cell phone starts to vibrate, and he flips it open to check the number. "What can I do for you, Chaz?"

"Do you have any idea where I've been tonight, Profit? To a stadium filled with overly earnest, grain-fed Promise Keepers. I sat on the dais and had to clap every time that idiot Linstrom mentioned 'our cherished Christian values,' which was every other sentence. You had better be accomplishing something in New York besides running up an exorbitant hotel bill."

"Everything is starting to come together just as I'd hoped," Jim assures him.

Lex has taken off his clothes and stands in front of Yamanashi, letting the man admire him. Yamanashi runs a hand down Lex's smooth side, caresses his hip, and gives Lex's cock, already hard, a teasing pump before nodding for Lex to get to his knees.

"Have you had a chance to review my proposal about Yamanashi Industries?" Jim asks.

"Yes, and I'm intrigued," Chaz says, "but how do you propose to get Yamanashi to the table? Or keep that attack dog Tochigi from derailing negotiations?"

Jim leans back in his leather chair. "I'm actually on very good terms with both Mr. Yamanashi and Mr. Tochigi."

Brett is face down on the sofa, his pants off, shirt pushed up into his armpits, losing what little is left of his virginity. Tochigi kneels between his splayed thighs, pumping into him, and Brett struggles, not very effectually given all the drugs he's taken. Tochigi doesn't seem to mind a reluctant whore. He reaches under Brett, and from Brett's sudden slack-jawed expression, it's clear that Tochigi is jerking him off.

"If I had your okay, I could get letters of intent signed tonight," Jim ventures.

Now that there's a hand on Brett's cock, he starts to warm to the fucking, little grunts of grudging pleasure coming out of him as he pushes back into the thrusts. Tochigi splays a hand across his back and murmurs epithets under his breath that roughly translate into English, "Take it, whore. Take it."

"Sure you're not being overconfident, Profit?" Chaz challenges.

Lex is kneeling in front of the sofa, expertly blowing Yamanashi, fingertips playing lightly over his balls, taking him deep into his throat, as if he could do this all night. Yamanashi looks as if that's exactly how long he plans to last.

Jim smiles. "Why don't we find out?"

There's a pause. "Fine. Make the deal if you can. But don't let it distract you from Linstrom. That's your priority."

Chaz hangs up in his ear, and Jim leisurely finishes his milk and works up the paperwork for the deal. When the men finish downstairs, he invites them up to the office for another drink, and over glasses of saki, they sign the letters of intent.

"You have been a most gracious host," Mr. Yamanashi says with a bow at the conclusion of their business.

Jim sees them out. The boys are still naked, lazing on the sofas. Actually, Brett has passed out. He did have a busy night, after all. When Tochigi finished with him, Yamanashi fucked him, and then Tochigi, excited by watching, had a go at his mouth.

Lex lies face down, his cheek resting on a pillow, his body utterly languid, but the expression in his blues eyes when he meets Jim's gaze is electrically sharp. Jim sits down next to him, slips an envelope of cash out of his pocket and lays it on the cushion.

"Mr. Yamanashi was very complimentary." He runs one finger lightly down Lex's spine. "So what do you think? Do we have an arrangement?"

Lex stretches lazily. "We do." He turns onto his back, his cock flushed and curving out from his body.

Jim smiles and goes down, closing the deal.

* * *

Word about Scion spread quickly around the club scene, and Jim soon has more willing whores on his hands than he knows what to do with, all of them rich and young and spoiled enough to see selling their bodies as the next big adventure. Customers are no harder to come by, and Jim is a businessman, so he does what businessmen do, hooks up supply and demand. He sends one empty-headed blonde heiress who practically lives on the covers of the scandal rags to work a bachelor party for a member of one of New York's more notorious crime families. She puts on a strip tease, and they feed her some booze, and by the end of the evening, they're doing coke off her boobs and passing her around like a party favor. She calls up the next day, muzzy sounding, but enthusiastic, "When can you get me another gig?"

Jim is still waiting for Alex Kerris to take the bait. He's shown far more restraint than Jim would have expected, but near the end of the week, Jim finally hears from him, "Hello. Yes. I was calling about— I, uh, got this number from Mr. Parnell."

Jim pitches his voice up an octave, not a hint of Texas in it, "I'm sorry I don't know anyone by that name." No establishment known for its discretion would acknowledge a customer, period, much less to a stranger over the phone.

"I'm glad to hear that," Kerris sounds more relaxed now that Jim has passed this test. "Moral majority."

"How may I help you?" Jim asks cordially.

"Company for tomorrow evening, young, male, pretty." He hesitates. "Very pretty, if you understand what I mean."

"I do," Jim says smoothly.

"I'm at The Pierre, room 1768, but it has to be discreet. No one can know or see anything—"

"No problem," Jim assures him and takes his credit card information. "Your company will be there tomorrow night at seven, and your privacy is guaranteed."

"It damned well better be," Kerris says imperiously and hangs up.

Jim calls Lex, and he picks up on the first ring, as if he's been waiting. "When do you want me?"

"Tomorrow night. The client has special tastes. Come here first, and I'll help you get ready."

Lex doesn't ask for details. "I'll see you at six."

Jim has a tumbler of Scotch waiting for him when he arrives. "Upstairs," he tells him.

The box is sitting on the bed in the master bedroom, and Jim nods Lex over to it. Lex pulls off the lid, pushes back the tissue paper, the crinkle of it loud in the quiet room. He takes out the cocktail dress, lingerie, stockings, and heels, and turns back to Jim, eyebrow raised.

"It's an important client," Jim moves close, whispers against Lex's temple, "and I don't think this is anything you haven't done before."

Lex's eyes get a sharp expression in them, just for a moment, and then he takes the lingerie into the bathroom. He comes back wearing the midnight blue bra and panties, garters dangling along his thighs. "You can help me with the rest."

"My pleasure," Jim tells him with a wicked smile.

Lex settles at the foot of the bed. Jim kneels and takes his time easing the silk stockings up Lex's slim, strong legs, caressing the soft skin as he goes. He snaps the garters into place and presses a kiss to Lex's cock, half hard beneath the silk.

He helps Lex into the dress and zips it up, the boy's half-lidded gaze meeting his in the mirror. It's no surprise at all what a pretty plaything Lex makes, and Jim kisses the curve of his neck. "Just a little lipstick, I think."

Lex's eyes brighten with amusement, and he sits down at the vanity table, sorts through the makeup, his back straight, shoulders back, almost dainty in the delicate silk sheath, although Jim knows the strongly muscled body beneath it is utterly masculine.

When Lex is ready, Jim escorts him down to the limo and rides along with him to the hotel, directs the driver around to a service entrance on the side street. "I've arranged for it to be unlocked and no one around," Jim tells Lex. "There's an elevator just inside. Take it up to room 1768."

Lex nods and fishes a compact and lipstick from the purse he's carrying.

Jim puts a hand on his arm. "Before you do that." He kisses him goodbye. "Have fun."

Lex smirks and fixes his lipstick and slips from the car. Jim watches the lazy sway of his hips as he crosses the sidewalk and disappears into the building. Jim presses a button on the armrest, and a panel slides back, revealing a TV monitor. While Kerris was at meetings that morning, Jim's security team wired the room, the images transmitted to a receiver in the car, so he can watch.

Kerris appears on screen, pacing nervously in the living area of the suite, as if this is a first date and not a sure thing. There's a knock, and he turns abruptly, goes to answer it. Lex sashays into the room—there's no other way to describe it—and smiles like the most incorrigible flirt who has ever lived. "Such a pleasure to meet you."

This is all it takes. Kerris is all over him, kissing and groping, pushing up Lex's skirt and fumbling to get the dress zipper open, sliding the straps down off Lex's shoulder. He walks Lex over to the sofa, tumbles him onto the cushions, and gets on top of him, rutting impatiently against the boy's thigh. Jim sees Lex's hand disappear between their bodies, and then Kerris' eyes fly shut and his mouth drops open.

Jim dials 911 on the disposable cell. "Yes, I'm staying at The Pierre, room 1767. I just saw a call girl go into the room next door, and now we can hear— I have my children with me. Can't you do something?"

He hangs up and waits, and it's not long before police cars come screeching into sight. Tourists mean money, and the city can't afford to have them alienated, especially ones with the means to stay at luxury hotels. Quality of life crimes have been taken very seriously indeed ever since the Giuliani administration. The officers stream through the same side entrance that Lex went in. Jim watches the monitor, and after a few minutes, there's pounding on the door, the loud shout of, "Police!" Kerris just manages to get himself untangled from Lex when the officers storm the room.

Despite Kerris' indignant bluster, he and Lex are both arrested. The money shot is when they're being led from the building in handcuffs, Lex with his lipstick lewdly smeared and Kerris with his fly gaping open. Jim waits for it, camera poised out the tinted window of the limo, and he snaps away until the police cars roar off toward the station.

By morning, no doubt all trace of Lex Luthor's arrest will have been expunged from the public record—Lionel Luthor is nothing if not thorough—but there will be a plain manila envelope waiting on Bernard Linstrom's desk just the same. Inside, Bernard Linstrom will find an anonymous letter from a self-proclaimed Christian, concerned that Linstom is being taken advantage of by sinful men trying to hide their true natures in order to do business with him, and the photographic evidence to back up the claim.

Tomorrow, Cecily Daniels will also receive a package, video highlights of Brett Edgerton's brief career as a whore, dancing naked at a gay man's bachelor party, putting on a show with sex toys for a rowdy group of German businessmen, getting gangbanged by a bunch of Midwestern plumbing parts salesmen, the after-hours entertainment at their annual convention, taking it from both ends for hours. _I just want him to be humiliated the way I was,_ Cecily had said when Jim went to speak with her, her face pale, lips pressed together angrily. It was a simple enough bargain to keep.

The surveillance equipment has already been cleared out of the penthouse, and Jim checks his watch. The maid service he hired should just about be finished scouring it clean of fingerprints or anything else that might tie him to the place. Tomorrow, he'll fix the record in the real estate company's database, mark it "available" again.

"LaGuardia," Jim tells the driver.

He leans back in the seat and watches the city whiz by, satisfied at a job well done.

* * *

A week later, Jim is in Chaz's office, accepting congratulations, the newly inked contract for the acquisition of Linstrom Technologies lying on Chaz's desk.  
"Well done, Profit." Chaz pours them both a drink, and they clink glasses.

"It was nothing," Jim does his best impression of modesty. "You did most of the hard work."

Chaz's eyebrow quirks upward. "I won't disagree with you there. If I had to memorize one more Bible verse—" He shakes his head ruefully. "I suppose I'll just have to be grateful that the Luthor kid and Alex Kerris conveniently were caught in a gay sex tryst together." Chaz gives him a speculative look. "Quite a coincidence that."

Jim shrugs, keeping his expression utterly innocent. "Sometimes you just get lucky, I guess."

A brief hesitation, and then Chad nods. "Yes, I suppose you do. Well, good job. Keep it up."

This is Jim's cue to go, and as he's on his way out, Billy Henderson from Legal comes rushing in, agitated, all the color gone from his face. "Mr. Gracen, there's something you need to see."

Jim continues on to his office. He already knows the bad news Billy Henderson is about to break to Chaz, the story that's just hitting the news networks, that Linstrom Technologies was founded with capital that can be traced back, if all the Byzantine twists and turns of international money laundering are carefully followed, to a Colombian drug cartel.

"Sykes!" Chaz Gracen's voice thunders out of his office.

"Hold my calls," Jim tells Gail as he passes by her desk.

He closes the door behind him and sits down at his computer, types in his password and pulls up the animation of Gracen and Gracen's executive floor. He steers a course with the mouse to Sykes office and double clicks, and the image of Sykes explodes to dust.

The moral of the story? When doing business with a self-righteous hypocrite, there is no such thing as too much due diligence.

* * *

EPILOGUE

The next morning, front-page headlines about Linstrom and a possible Justice Department investigation blare across every major paper, and most of the minor ones too. Both Linstrom Technologies and Gracen and Gracen's stock take a nosedive. Buried several pages into the business section is a story that probably would have had people talking on any other day, that LuthorCorp is set to acquire AltaVist for a modest two billion dollars. LuthorCorp's stock has risen seven points. A footnote to the article mentions that Lex Luthor has taken over as the head of LuthorCorp's fertilizer factory in Smallville, Kansas.

Jim reads this over breakfast, and when he gets to office, he tells Gail, "Book me on the first flight you can get to Metropolis. There's something I need to take care of there." In business, it's not always possible to avoid making enemies, but it's always a good idea to try.

Gail works her magic, and Jim is on a ten a.m. flight, and in Smallville by late afternoon. The GPS in the rental car gives him directions to the Luthor family mansion. He's not entirely certain that Lex will see him, but the staff directs him to the study without hesitation.

Lex is seated at his desk, colored light playing on his sleeve from the stained glass window behind him, his hands tented meditatively in front of him. "Mr. Profit. I can't say I'm entirely surprised to see you."

A corner of Jim's mouth turns up. "No?" He settles into the chair across from Lex. "I just wanted to tell you that was very well played."

Lex inclines his head. "Why thank you." His eyes are bright with mockery, at himself, at Jim. "I believe we both got what we wanted in the end. LuthorCorp, of course, got AltaVist for a bargain. And Jeffrey Sykes is looking for new employment, is he not?"

"He is," Jim confirms, unable to keep the gloating note out of his voice. "So I'd say it's win-win, and we're all even now."

He meets Lex's gaze, and his meaning is perfectly clear, _Don't fuck with me, and I won't fuck with you. Deal?_

Lex looks thoughtfully into the distance. "Not _entirely_ win-win, actually. My father was able to clean up all the evidence of my…business dealings, shall we call it? But not the rumors. To keep up appearances, he has to appear to be disgusted by my behavior, and so he exiled me to Smallville to 'teach me a lesson.' Now here I am. Head of my very own crap factory in the middle of nowhere." The words drip bitterness.

Jim lets his gaze wander over Lex's body, his voice dropping to a sultrier octave, "There must be something I can do to make it up to you."

"You are imaginative," Lex concedes. "And I do find myself wondering how you'd look in lipstick. Maybe a nice soft pink?" He tilts his head, considering.

Jim laughs softly. "Why don't we—"

"Lex, do you think you could help me with—" A tall, dark-haired boy with big green eyes comes bounding into the room, stops abruptly when he sees Jim, his cheeks turning bright red. "Oops. Sorry. I didn't realize you were in a meeting."

Lex is quick to his feet. "Not a problem, Clark. I'm almost finished here. Why don't you go wait for me in the game room?" Lex's tone is more solicitous than Jim has imagined possible for him, and there's something telling in the way Lex's hand hovers over the boy's back, not quite touching, as he walks him out of the study.

When he returns, Jim is grinning. "Oh, we're more than even." Lex scowls, and Jim kisses him anyway, a quick goodbye. "Have fun with him."

Jim makes the evening flight, and he's back home by midnight, in front of his computer in his inner sanctum, watching the video of Lex from that night in the hotel room. He pauses and rewinds, again and again, and he's not sure how he missed it before, the way Lex smiles right into the camera. A person that talented at dissembling can be a powerful ally or a dangerous enemy. A person of interest at the very least. Jim will certainly have to keep an eye on him.

He turns off the computer, hits the lights, curls up in his box. "Goodnight," he says aloud, to himself or to Lex, he's not sure which, as he closes his eyes.


End file.
